


The One Where Sam Gives A Gift

by Moorishflower



Series: A Cold Academic Hell [11]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-06
Updated: 2011-01-06
Packaged: 2017-10-14 11:29:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/148791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moorishflower/pseuds/Moorishflower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam had never thought that chocolate would be on his mental list of "things to worry about," but he's been going through a lot of firsts, lately, and this is probably the least monumental of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The One Where Sam Gives A Gift

Sam likes his new classes. He’s had far worse professors before – although Dean is probably right, Professor Crowley is definitely going to grade hard and maybe not curve at all – and the classes themselves are mostly tailored to his interests: religious studies, two criminal justice classes, a required sociology class, and a communications class. The sociology class is where he’s headed now, his boots sloshing through the many puddles as he picks his way across campus. Everything is grey and sodden and miserable outside, but at least it isn’t raining anymore. Now it’s just damp, and freezing, but freezing in that way that it’s just on the edge of being cold enough for snow.

Right now, Dean is in his first year seminar class. Sam wonders how he’s doing. If he’s making an effort to talk to anyone. He’d been acting a little stange when Sam mentioned it, earlier, but he’d brushed it off as being worried about _fencing_ , of all things. Dean’s never been worried about physical activity in his life – if there was one good thing their father taught them, it was how to stay in shape.

Still, Sam can’t think of a reason as to why Dean would be worried about that class. It’s not like it’s a particularly _hard_ class, and Mr. Novak is…nice. A bit spooky, the way he always stares, and not as nice as his brother, but still, nice.

Speaking of Novaks…Sam pauses in front of the Browning building, reaching behind himself in order to touch his backpack, to feel the shape of the chocolate boxes inside. Still there. Still reassuringly not crushed. Sam breathes a sigh of relief, and then continues on. _After sociology,_ he promises himself. _I’ll give them to Gabriel. After class._

Thankfully, criminology isn’t as… _exciting_ as religious studies turned out to be, and it has substantially less to do with wine and how God has turned His back on everyone. Still, the professor is one of the more interesting ones that Sam has come across. Professor Moseley has a plain, easy way of speaking that belies her intelligence, right up until someone questions her, at which point it becomes very, very obvious as to why she’s teaching what she teaches. The woman is a keen observer with a sharp tongue, two things that always, inevitably, lead to tears, uncomfortable revelations, and, on occasion, hilarity. Luckily, the first two seem to have passed them by, today, and Sam spends the first class reading the syllabus, getting a brief summary of the chapters they’ll cover in the textbook, and then getting to know the other students, and the professor herself. Professor Moseley is sixty-one. She’s got two kids, “just like y’all,” and she was a defense attorney before she became a professor, but found herself drifting away from the profession after a while.

“I lost the boundless optimism I had when I was a young woman,” she says, and Sam can almost hear the pain in her voice. “It’s the sort of job that’ll do that to you. So if any of you are planning on heading off to law school, you’d best keep that in mind. How many of you want to be lawyers?”

A few students cautiously raise their hands, Sam included.

“Defense? Prosecution? Maybe you want to become barrister?”

“Defense,” Sam says softly, almost to himself, but Professor Moseley glances at him, and smiles.

“A white knight. I like that. Well, keep my words in mind, hon. You might need them later.”

After class, Sam grabs his backpack, intending to leave, but is stopped by Professor Moseley just as he’s getting ready to step out the door.

“Defense, huh? Most people feel strongly about one or the other ‘cause of something that happened to them personally.”

Sam pauses, and then turns around, moving to the side to let the last few students pass him. Professor Moseley leans against the desk at the front of the room, staring at him. She looks…understanding.

“Nothing in particular,” Sam says, and then, elaborating, “It was a lot of little things. I’m just sick of seeing good people get hurt.”

“Some would say that law is the wrong profession for that. Become a doctor, or work to discover the cure for cancer. Don’t become a blood-sucking lawyer.”

“I think most people have the wrong idea of what being a lawyer is about,” Sam says carefully, and Professor Moseley smiles. “I think too many people go into law because they want to make money, not because they want to help people.”

“That’s the opinion of many a young student. And then they go off to law school, and they change. I should know.”

“I don’t care about money. I never have.”

“You’re one of the rare ones, then.” Professor Moseley begins to gather up her things, humming softly. “Well, maybe you’ll go further than I did. I’m rooting for you, hon. Mr. Winchester, right?”

“Right.”

“Have a good day, Mr. Winchester. And don’t let anyone tell you that you can’t keep your hands clean in law school, because you can. Someone like you can.”

Sam hefts his backpack a little more securely over his shoulder, trying to figure out what, exactly, Professor Moseley is trying to tell him. Is she trying to warn him about law school? If she is, she’s doing it in a nicer way than Mr. Adler, but Sam still isn’t interested. He knows what he wants to do. He’s going to get his four-year degree, and then he’s going to get into law school, and he’ll pass the bar exam, and he’ll pass it, he _knows_ he will. There’s nothing else in the world that he’d rather do.

“Thank you, ma’am,” he says politely. “I’ll try to do my best.”

And then, before she can offer him any more advice, he steps out of the classroom and takes one of the side doors out into the freezing damp.

~

Sam’s criminal justice classes aren’t anything to write home about. It’s going to be a lot of studying, a lot of reading, and a lot of notes, but it’s nothing he can’t handle, and he has the feeling that his communications class – Monday, Wednesday, and Friday nights – will be one of those courses that he can just sort of coast through. He’ll need it, that sense of not having to worry, when midterms roll around. For now, though, he’s just trying to process all of his classes, their differences, which professors are more likely to have high expectations and which ones have been beaten down into pulp by the endless, yearly tide of students. Professor Crowley likely has no expectations of them, but he’ll grade hard out of spite. Professor Moseley will expect them to know the lectures, but her lip had curled, slightly, when she’d told them to open their textbooks, which makes Sam think that she probably won’t be using it much. Both of his criminal justice classes are about memorization and reiteration. Nothing complicated, just busywork.

All in all, the semester could be worse.

Except for the part where he’s got three boxes – three _expensive_ boxes – of chocolate burning a hole in his backpack. He’s pretty sure that part can’t get any worse. In fact, he’s pretty sure that those chocolates are just the tip of a massive iceberg of failure. What if Sam’s been reading way too much into this? What if he’s been hallucinating for the past two months or so? Maybe Gabriel isn’t actually… _interested_. Maybe he’s just being kind.

Even though Gabriel doesn’t seem like the sort of person who’s just randomly kind to strangers.

Sam hikes up the hill, squelching his way through puddles of mud and water that are at least an inch deep, trying to avoid the rain-heavy tree branches that are hanging down over the path, threatening, with every step, to hit him in the face. He is abruptly and unpleasantly reminded of how much he hates this campus when it rains when a car drives past, going at least ten over the speed limit, and splashes the legs of his jeans with thin splatters of mud. Sam makes an angry sound after the car, half-raising his hand, and then, realizing that it won’t do anything, he shakes first one leg, and then the other.

“Christ,” he mutters, and then, bowing his head against the chilly breeze, he continues on up the hill.

The administration building is a warm respite after the cold and the damp outside, and Sam takes a moment just to let the heat sink into him, soaking into his bones and loosening up his limbs. The secretary at the front desk watches him, but doesn’t say anything – Sam doesn’t doubt that she’s seen him come in here before, and she remembers him. He thinks that people don’t give secretaries much credit; he nods at her as he walks past her desk, and she smiles. He doesn’t know her name.

If Sam ever has his own secretary, he’s going to make sure that he knows her last _and_ first name, and he’ll remember her birthday, and he’ll always say “hello” to her. He still remembers, three summers ago, working at a high-end restaurant, first bussing tables and then serving meals, and not a single person there had ever remembered his name. Not his boss, not his coworkers, and certainly not the customers, and that, Sam thinks, is just…wrong.

The front hall disappears behind him as Sam wends his way further into the building, until he eventually reaches the stairs down into the advising center. There he pauses, taking a deep breath.

 _You can still back out of this._ He could. He _can_ , if he wants to. There’s nothing stopping him from cutting this whole ridiculous venture off before it gets out of hand. After all, there’s no hard _proof_ that Gabriel feels anything for him other than platonic affection. Maybe not even that. Maybe he just feels like he’s doing his duty.

Sam thinks about Jess, and how she had practically needed to jump him before he realized that she wanted to be more than friends.

 _Then again, I’m not the best at recognizing things like this._ He’s not like Dean, who can spot an interested glance at forty paces in a darkened bar. But, also unlike Dean, Sam is interested in…relationships. Commitment.

Neither of which he’s sure he can get from Gabriel.

And then there’s the whole _guy_ thing. He doesn’t know guys. Not like this, anyway. He doesn’t know how guys react to things like chocolates or holding hands or kissing in public places, all the things he’d done with Jessica without thinking about them, the things he’d sort of taken for granted. The things he’d missed when Jessica had left him. Still misses them, if he’s being honest.

Would Gabriel mind those things? Would Gabriel even _want_ those things? Or would Gabriel want to…keep it professional? After all, they’re student and…well, not professor, but _staff_. And the university has rules that say that students and faculty aren’t allowed to pursue relationships while on campus grounds, and students aren’t allowed to take the classes that their spouses are teaching, and there are a whole bunch of rules set in place to keep professors and staff from showing favoritism. Sam had looked it up, all of it, and it goes back to like, seventy years ago, when one of the students was actually the wife of the head of the physics department. With no rules previously in place, the university hadn’t been able to expel her for fear of being sued for discrimination, so they’d drafted some new university rules and slapped them on with duct tape and hope, and, so far, everything has held tight.

Would Gabriel want him? Despite the guy thing? Despite the age difference? Despite the fact that Sam is a student?

“You look like you’ve got a lot on your mind, son.”

Sam starts, and then turns on his heel to face the speaker. It’s a guy, an older guy with graying hair and kind eyes, and a shiny gold nametag pinned to the front of his shirt. _Joshua_ , it says, in etched letters. The name sounds familiar, but Sam can’t place it. It’s probably the way his head feels like it’s spinning, he thinks.

“I do,” Sam says vaguely. Why is he talking to this guy again?

“Well, you should know that things have a way of turning out for the best. Sometimes, the ‘best’ isn’t what we expect, but it’s always what we need.”

Sam nods dumbly, and the man – Joshua – smiles at him, and then brushes past on his way down the hallway. “Take care, son,” he says, voice drifting back, and Sam shakes his head, clearing it.

“ _Huh_ ,” he says, quietly and to himself. Then, after a moment of thought, he descends the stairs into the advising center. _Things have a way of turning out for the best._ Maybe that’s true, and maybe it isn’t. Maybe this will only end in heartbreak.

But he’ll never know unless he tries.

All of the decorations – the small ornaments and the fairy lights – have been taken down from where they hung around the advising center, replaced by little paper cutouts of snowflakes. Sam notices that some of them actually look less like snowflakes and suspiciously more like grinning faces, but that might just be him. He ducks underneath them as he walks, until he comes to Gabriel’s cubicle, which is right underneath the thickest cloud of snowflakes and maybe-faces.

The cubicle is empty.

Gabriel’s computer is still there, locked to the desk, and a drawer is open, revealing a half-eaten bag of Tootsie Rolls. There’s a picture on the desk that Sam doesn’t think was there before – he takes a step into the cubicle to look at it. Gabriel’s grinning face stares back at him, mugging for the camera. Standing next to him is a somber-looking man with dark hair and intense blue eyes. Sam is almost positive that this is Castiel, Dean’s advisor. Brothers. Gabriel had mentioned it before, but Sam’s never met the man before, and…

“May I help you?”

He spins around, his backpack thumping against his lower back, to face the man standing in the doorway of the cubicle.

It’s Castiel Novak. Glasses perched on the end of his nose, holding a sheaf of paper, looking vaguely disapproving, though whether it’s of Sam or the sheaf of paper, he doesn’t know.

“Uh,” he says, and then, quickly, “I wanted to…to talk to…” Shit. Don’t call him… “Mr. Novak.”

Castiel raises his eyebrows. “You are Sam Winchester?”

“Uh…yeah?”

“You are taller than I expected.”

 _Expected?_ “…Thank you?”

“Gabriel is not here. He is at the doctor’s, for a check-up. I believe he is having the nose plaster removed today.”

Sam winces. “Oh. That’s…I’m sorry.”

“It is nothing I know about,” Castiel says firmly. “If you have something you wish to discuss with him, I would suggest that you leave a note for him, or perhaps send him an email, though he is rather bad at checking them.”

“I…” Sam swallows. “I don’t have his email.”

“Are you not one of his students?”

“My advisor was Mr. Adler.”

“ _Ah_.” Castiel’s eyes are knowing. Almost _too_ knowing. Sam feels uncomfortable underneath that intense gaze. He doesn’t know how Dean can stand it, going to this guy, talking to him about classes and finals and things. Sam wouldn’t be able to help it, he’d end up thinking Castiel was judging him, silently, behind those glasses and those too-blue eyes.

“Well,” Castiel says. “Considering that Zachariah is under formal investigation by the university for conduct unbecoming a staff member, I should think that it would be wise for you to request a transfer to a different advisor.”

“I tried to do that a long time ago,” Sam murmurs. “I was told that it was too much trouble.”

“Things have changed. It is not too much trouble for me. I will bring you the relevant forms. Please wait here.”

Sam nods faintly, and Castiel, after another moment of intense scrutiny, blinks and then turns on his heel, marching past the cubicle and disappearing around a corner. Sam takes the opportunity to grab one of the notepads off of Gabriel’s desk, and a pen from the half-open drawer. It’s topped with a bright yellow rubber smiley face. Of course.

Leaving a note should be easy. Just…write “Merry Christmas” or something, or “happy holidays,” it doesn’t have to be something special, something extravagant.

Except…Sam kind of wants it to be.

He’s got no time, though, and he should have thought of this when he was still at the store and capable of buying a card, but he didn’t, and now he has to live with it. And he imagines that can hear Castiel walking back down the narrow hallway, forms in hand.

Sam bites his lip, and then, quickly, writes, _I was thinking of you. – S.W._ He unzips his backpack and pulls out the boxes of chocolate, leaving them stacked in the middle of Gabriel’s desk, and then he rips off the note and sticks it on top.

 _Merry Christmas,_ he thinks numbly, and puts the notepad and the pen back just in time, as Castiel reappears in the doorway to the cubicle.

“Ah,” he says, glancing at Sam. His eyes are piercing. “I see someone has left Gabriel a gift.”

“Someone,” Sam repeats faintly.

“I imagine he will be pleased. Gabriel is inordinately fond of sweets.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“Well. I have the forms here. If you wish, you may fill them out in your own time, and then return them here when you are finished, or you may accompany me to my cubicle and fill them out there. It will not take long to process them.”

“I’ll fill them out on my own,” Sam says, reaching out, and Castiel hands him the forms smoothly, easily. Like he’d been expecting that answer. “I mean, I have to go, I’ve got to go and meet my brother…”

“How is Dean?”

Sam blinks. “Excuse me?”

“Before he left for winter break, he seemed…slightly out of sorts.”

“Oh.” Sam shakes his head, laughing softly. “Yeah, he, uh. He’s crushing really hard on this person, I don’t know who, but he bought this really lame present and I guess it didn’t go over so well. But he’s better, now, so maybe they made up. I have no idea.”

“I see.” Castiel nods again. “Well, I am glad that things are…better.”

“So am I. Dean’s…not a lot of fun to be around when he’s angry at himself.” Sam picks up his backpack, quickly zipping it closed and then slinging it over his shoulder. “Thank you for the forms, Mr. Novak. I’ll get them back to you as soon as I can.”

“You needn’t bring them back to me. Any advisor will do. Perhaps you might bring them back to the advisor that you wish to be transferred to.” Castiel glances, meaningfully, at Gabriel’s desk, and Sam swallows.

 _Shit. He knows. Oh fuck, he knows, he…_

“I’ll do that,” Sam says, voice shaky. Then he squares his shoulders, drawing himself up to his full height. Being tall is usually a nuisance, but now he’s grateful for it, because it makes him feel…steadier. A little bit stronger.

 _He knows, and I don’t give a fuck._

“Perhaps I shall see you again, Sam Winchester.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Sam steps past Castiel, out into the narrow hallway, ducking his head to avoid the bundles of paper snowflakes. His backpack feels lighter, but it isn’t just a physical lightness. All the stress, all the worrying, all the late-night guilt over thinking about Gabriel the way he has…it’s gone. Or, if not gone, then at least greatly diminished.

He doesn’t look back as he climbs the stairs back up to the outside world, leaving the odd safety that the advising center – and Gabriel’s small space in particular – has come to represent. His brother is waiting for him.  



End file.
